BY MATT JOHANSON
Special to the Journal
What Giants fans wouldn’t want to meet Willie Mays? My friend Wylie Wong and I were thrilled at the opportunity. Wylie, a former college classmate, had conceived a book of Giants “where are they now” stories and enlisted me to help write it. We even found a publisher that offered us a modest contract, and Giants media staff agreed to connect us with the “Say Hey Kid.”
We quickly found that Mays didn’t share our enthusiasm. Though we had an appointment, our questions and presence in the locker room clearly annoyed him. Mays declined to talk about his career or his post-retirement life. Everything we said made his ire worse, so we finally gave up and left to drown our sorrows in ballpark beer. However, two years later I would later have a much better meeting with the perennial All-Star.
San Francisco’s “Cooperstown Crew” consists of five Hall of Famers who played between 1951 and 1980. Though I’m too young to have seen them play, as a sportswriter I got to meet all five from 2004 to 2006. The recent deaths of Mays and fellow Giants great Orlando Cepeda, and the earlier passings of Willie McCovey and Gaylord Perry, stirred memories of these interactions.
Like Mays, former slugger McCovey was not pleased to meet me. “Let’s get this over with,” he said when I arrived in his ballpark booth.
Naturally I was disappointed, but I don’t resent them for their disinterest. Mays and McCovey were both Black men who grew up in the segregated Jim Crow South, fought their way into major league baseball and reached both the World Series and Hall of Fame. World-class athletes like them receive countless interview requests. Why would they want to talk to an unknown writer half their age from a comfortable suburb?
McCovey, to me, was a sad figure because I only ever saw him around the ballpark using crutches or a wheelchair. After 25 years of pro baseball, his knees could not support him. We talked about both his playing days (his four-for-four debut was a favorite memory) and also his health challenges. Despite more than two dozen knee surgeries which failed to restore his mobility, he said, “Things are looking up.”
I was too young then to truly grasp the idea of aging gracefully. But Giants broadcaster Lon Simmons, another Hall of Famer, helped me appreciate “Stretch,” who had been a lanky first baseman. “It’s amazing how well he’s taken it, how he hasn’t become bitter about it. He’s really faced up to it beautifully, much better than most people would have,” said Simmons.
Perry told a completely different story. A pitcher, Perry infuriated opponents by throwing illegal spitballs. When I interviewed him, I foolishly led off by asking about his wet pitches. “I don’t remember,” he told me, twice, before I realized I was handling him terribly and changed the subject. He was more willing to talk about his North Carolina farm and college coaching career but still cut off the conversation quickly. I share that anecdote every time I teach interviewing to my high school journalism students to impress the importance of starting with friendly questions.
Cepeda was most cooperative of the five. Born in Puerto Rico, the “Baby Bull” had to endure racism while learning English as he played his way into the majors. Cepeda hit a home run in the Giants’ first San Francisco game, a 8-0 win over the Dodgers. But after baseball, he endured two failed marriages, a drug conviction and 10 months in jail. Later Cepeda became grateful for these hardships which turned him toward Buddhism, which he credited with saving his life.
“Fame and wealth and whatever can disappear in one instant. That happened to me, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said. “Buddhism is about common sense and wisdom and how to do the right thing at the right time. When you learn that, you don’t get in trouble…
Anybody can make a mistake, but we have the opportunity to bounce back and show that we are good people.”
Pitcher Juan Marichal is the last living member of the Giants’ “Cooperstown Crew.” Like Cepeda, the “Dominican Dandy” also overcame racism and poverty while learning English. His career featured 243 wins and a now-unthinkable 244 complete games, though forgiveness is the part of his story that resonates most with me. Marichal and Dodgers catcher John Roseboro famously brawled in 1965, but the two later became teammates and close friends. Roseboro campaigned for the Hall of Fame to induct Marichal, and Marichal spoke at Roseboro’s funeral in 2002.
Two years after our first disappointing meeting, I got another chance to meet the greatest player of all time, and this time he “played ball” with me. We talked about an unforgettable 1961 game when Mays overcame food poisoning to hit four home runs against the Milwaukee Braves.
“If I hit four home runs and we lost, it would have meant nothing to me. Instead, four homers and a win made it a happy clubhouse,” Mays said.
“They were the best swings you’ve ever seen,” said Simmons, who was also in the room and helped coax Mays to talk. “Two of them didn’t just clear the fence, they went out of the ballpark.”
While we spoke, pitcher Armando Benitez leaned into the room and waved. San Francisco’s closer was slumping painfully and couldn’t even warm up without Giants fans booing him.
Mays stared at Benitez for a moment. Then he grimaced and told the pitcher, “Man, you’re killing me!”
Benitez stiffened, but seeing a writer in the room, kept his mouth shut. “I ain’t saying nothing,” he said. Mays’ comment was not the encouragement Benitez sought, but he waited a minute more, hoping for absolution.
Finally, Mays gave it to him. “You’re going to be fine, just relax,” he said.
Smiling, the pitcher turned to go. Benitez pitched a perfect ninth inning that night, Aug. 1, 2006. Thirty-four years after his last Giants game, the “Say Hey Kid” still had the Midas touch. He offered it to me, too: “Just write whatever you want.” I left that room better understanding the pressure of celebrity.
I’m grateful to all the “Cooperstown Crew” for letting me into the baseball world and broadening my horizons, even when they didn’t really want to do it. As Simmons would say, “Tell them goodbye.”
